


A Good Night’s Sleep

by MelinaLove



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Bedwetting, Freddie is a soft little darling, Gen, Omorashi, Pre-Slash, Shyness, Social Anxiety, Vulnerability, a visit to Cornwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21593323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelinaLove/pseuds/MelinaLove
Summary: Request by Mallory - Freddie wetting the bed, while in bed with another band member.Poor Freddie has an accident at Roger’s house... 😢
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Freddie omorashi is the real deal 👍🏻 Requests welcome!

It’s too quiet, and Freddie knows that ought to be a good thing - but it isn’t. It really, really isn’t. Cornwall is creepy and misty and not like London, and everything about London that makes it familiar is missing. 

Familiar is good. Familiar is safe. 

Truro isn’t exactly bad, but there are new people and he isn’t good at that, even though Roger’s mum is kind and welcoming. Almost too kind, because it makes Freddie sort of wish he could be home with his own Mum, and that isn’t an option, not any more... 

Visits, that’s all you get when you’re grown up. 

It was a long train journey, and maybe Freddie did have a hard time holding it and getting to the toilet on the train in quite enough time... 

But he got there. With slightly damp knickers, but that’s no big deal, no one could even see. He felt a bit choked up and weepy in the small train toilet, but he swallowed hard until it was under control and he was ready to go back to Roger and Brian. 

By bedtime his knickers have dried, and Roger’s shown him the bathroom in his home, and that’s alright. No need to worry. He’s fine now they’re here.

He does worry a little when it’s bedtime, though, because he hadn’t really thought about who might be sleeping where... he was just pleased that Roger wanted him to come, that he was included. He still feels like an interloper half the time. Like they’d really rather have Tim back, and the old name back, and really just everything that’s not-Freddie. 

It turns out he’s sleeping with Roger, which is - upsetting, for a lot of reasons. Does that mean Roger DOESN’T know about Freddie? It’s always seemed like he does, although he isn’t one to throw insults... they’ve been in enough dodgy clubs together. He has to have seen Freddie isn’t exactly all over the ladies like he is himself. 

But would he really share a bed with Freddie? If he knew? 

Surely he wouldn’t. And if he doesn’t know, that means he might realize at any time - Freddie might say something stupid or get the wrong look on his face, or even have a dream... 

He really, really doesn’t want to get booted from Queen when they’ve only just begun. 

Brian knows. He’s sure Brian knows, with that big brain of his... no way has he missed seeing that Freddie’s not normal, not really a proper man like the others...

And that means sex. But also - also in some other ways.

He won’t let himself think about the other ways, not while he changes into clean pyjamas while Roger’s in the bathroom, trying to time it for moments when Brian - who has the guest room - ISN’T sticking his head in to chat.

It’s not like it’s every night. He’s much better now. It will be fine, because it has to be fine, it HAS to be fine. Roger has seen him have an accident, but only under excusable circumstances... like when they’ve been drinking. 

And that could happen to anyone, Freddie tells himself, finding his toothbrush. That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone could need to go on the bus home and - and not quite manage to hold it. Or in a very long queue.

He doesn’t have a very big, or strong, bladder, but the days of wetting his bed every single night are long past. It’s only... sometimes, like how the daytime problems are... only sometimes, and usually not much more than a damp spot in the front of his knickers. 

Roger bounds in, grinning.

“I’m going to tell ghost stories after we put the lights out,” he announces, “So be ready, Freddie. This is your final warning!” 

Freddie swallows, and forces a smile. He doesn’t, actually, want to do ghost stories. Getting scared isn’t fun when you’re terrified as often as he already is. But it’s Roger’s house, he’s just the guest - and the second-most wanted guest, at that. 

He can’t exactly say no. 

In the bathroom he brushes his teeth and has a last pee, straining a little to empty his bladder as much as he can. Psychology, he thinks. He read about it in a magazine, and he tells his body, no, you are not going to wee the bed tonight. You’re not. You definitely are not.

Brian comes into Roger’s room to join the ghost story circle in semi-darkness, once Freddie’s back. They have to keep their voices down because Roger’s sister has school in the morning, but with Brian’s torch and some whispering, they get off to a good start. Roger, however, ruins it all by falling asleep suddenly, no more than fifteen minutes in.

“Lazy,” Brian says in disgust. “Lump.” He shoves Roger with his toe, but gets no response.

“Okay,” he says wearily. “Night then, Freddie.” 

And just like that, Freddie’s alone in the darkness of Roger’s quiet bedroom - surprisingly, Roger doesn’t snore at all. Freddie almost wishes he did, because the weird silent darkness of Cornwall outside feels overwhelming, even worse than the ghosts... 

He falls asleep before he can put his finger on why. 

And wakes.

Wakes with a sick jolt in his tummy, and awful, swimmy cold around him in the bed - no. Oh no. 

But he has.

The pyjama bottoms are soaked and clinging to him, the cotton heavy with wee, and the sheets on top of him are wet too, and worst of all... Worst of all, his bottom’s wet. The wee is all underneath him, sopping, and there’s no plastic sheet on this bed, of course there isn’t, Roger wouldn’t need one...

He can’t help it. He can’t stop it. A terrified sob comes out of his mouth, and his eyes are full of tears, and he’s going to wake Roger... Roger will hear him, Roger will - will know what he’s done, find him smelly and wet, like a baby... 

Freddie sobs again, and he feels Roger stir next to him, his heavier weight moving the mattress and the wee around Freddie shifting too, humiliating wetness that can’t possibly be hidden. 


	2. Chapter 2

Roger wakes to a sense of confusion, unsure where he is or what precisely is happening. A girl? Or someone - is it a child? - crying outside, calling for help? 

After a couple of baffled moments, poking at his own pillow, he remembers that he’s in Cornwall. No, no Dad, it’s safe enough, so why is there somebody crying-? 

Oh fuck, it’s not outside at all - as his half asleep brain begins to sharpen into wakefulness, he realises that the crying is only on the other side of the room. 

It’s Freddie - of course, it’s Freddie, and he’s probably scared of the dark, that feels like a very Freddie-like problem to have, doesn’t it? Or maybe he’s had a bad dream...

Roger sits up and turns on the light, but before he can really say anything - he gets out the first syllable of Freddie's name, at most - Freddie's gone, scuttled out of the room.

But he’s crying. Not exactly something Roger can just ignore, leave alone...He's not enough of a bastard to roll over and go back to sleep, knowing that Freddie is so upset, or so frightened...He goes to push aside the bedclothes and his hand comes down in something wet and cold, and he knows at once. 

Instantly. 

And he feels like a complete arsehole, because - for fuck’s sake, it’s not a well-kept secret, is it? Why didn’t he think? How could he have let this just happen, without talking to Freddie, without any preparation or reassurance at all? 

He gingerly wipes his hand dry on another bit of sheet. It’s not nice, but he’ll have to deal with this somehow - but just as he’s getting out of bed, thanking god privately that Freddie didn’t actually get him wet, the door opens quietly.

Mum.

“Roger?” she says softly. “What’s wrong, dear?” 

“Oh Mum-” It’s a relief to admit the problem, really. And it’s not like telling somebody else, not like telling Brian or Tim or anyone. 

“Mum - it’s Freddie, I’m sorry - he’s wet the bed, he’s really upset -” 

“Oh-” She sounds less surprised than he’d somehow expected, but she’s already speaking again so he has to dismiss the thought. “That poor boy... Is he in the bathroom?” 

“I don’t know where he is... Mum, I should’ve thought. Sorry, I just - I was looking forward to seeing you and I -forgot about Freddie. And he’s so upset, he was crying when I woke up-”

Mum's patting his shoulder like he’s the one who needs comforting. 

“Pull the wet bedclothes off, Roger, and roll them up so they aren’t dripping everywhere, if you please. I’ll find Freddie and - and look after him.” 

Winifred Taylor has lived enough years to have an eye for the weakest of the flock, and she has already identified Freddie Bulsara as timid, even scared, to the point of near clinginess with the other boys. 

Though Roger has said, on the phone, that Freddie's older than he is, he seems like the youngest of the three - slightly built and far too thin, nervy, obviously very sensitive. 

He has beautiful manners when he can bring himself to speak at all, but when Roger first introduced him, he was visibly trembling - he shook her hand politely, but his was icy cold. 

Of course she didn’t exactly think he would wet the bed. But neither is she, deep down, anywhere near as surprised as she knows she would’ve been if it were any other friend of Roger’s... 

Thank goodness, she can’t help thinking, that Michael’s no longer here. He’d be so angry at the disturbance. Poor little Freddie. 

She finds him by the front door, struggling helplessly with the locks and trying to cry as quietly as he can. Sniffling and swallowing tears.

It’s awful, because she guesses at once that he’s trying to get away - that he can’t face the punishment or shame that he imagines is in store. 

Even in just the moonlight she can see he’s soaking wet. 

“Freddie,” she says gently. “Oh dear - Freddie, stop that...” She reaches him and puts her hands over his, stilling them. 

“It doesn’t matter, dear–“ she’s interrupted by a sob. “Don’t cry like that, you’re not in trouble.” 

She puts her arm round his thin, trembling shoulders. 

“Let’s get you up to the bathroom and changed into some dry pyjamas.” 

She guides him back upstairs and into the bathroom, switching on the light as they enter. 

He really is a pitiful sight. Somehow he looks even smaller in his pyjamas, which are heavy with urine, sagging from his narrow hips, darkened with wet. And he’s crying... he keeps crying, though she can tell he’s trying to stop, swallowing and choking a bit, only the tears won’t cease. 

“I’ll put some warm water in the sink, dear,” she says, making her voice as gentle as she possibly can. She turns on the taps, finds a cloth, then, turning back to him, speaks again. 

“You can have a wash, Freddie, when the sink’s filled - just leave your wet jammies in the bath, chicken, and I’ll put them in the wash in the morning.” 

Freddie’s crying hard enough that it’s difficult even to distinguish the words of his reply, but she can make out “Sorry”, splintered with sobs.

“Oh sweetheart,” she says, her heart aching, as she turns the tap off - the basin is two thirds full - and comes back to where Freddie is standing near the door, hunched and dripping. “You don’t have to be sorry... I know it was an accident. I just want to get you dry and warm.” 

Freddie is mortified beyond belief. He can’t stop this awful, pathetically babyish crying, but even if he could, what can he say? He tried to run away, like the utter coward he is... Roger’s mum caught him at the front door, covered in pee, stinking, humiliated. No one will ever speak to him again. Not ever. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft creak and Roger’s voice says, “Mum? Freddie-?”

Freddie puts his hands over his face, which is revolting because there’s pee on them, but he can’t let Roger see - see how much he’s crying, see how ridiculous he is. There’s no way to hide the thing he’s done, after all. 

“I put the sheets in the washing machine, Mum,” Roger is saying, sounding surprisingly calm. “Freddie - hey - oh, Freddie, please, stop it...” 

Freddie wants to drop dead. 

He wants to spontaneously combust. 

Anything would be better than what’s actually happened, pissing the bed - Roger’s bed - at Roger’s house like this, and everyone knowing...Well, no, not everyone, not yet, but tomorrow? 

“Please, d-don’t tell Brian,” he begs, hearing his voice tremble with more tears. 

Brian knows about this stuff, Roger almost says, but he catches his mother's eye before he can bring the words out, and finds himself saying, “No, no,” instead, as reassuringly as possible. 

“Roger’s going to bring you a pair of pyjamas to borrow,” Winifred says, putting her arm round him again and rubbing his back, trying to help the poor little thing to focus. “I’ll see to the bed, dearie. It’s nothing to cry over, I promise you; these things happen.” 

With her other hand, she touches his wet cheek, carefully wiping some of the tears which have poured over it in the past few minutes. 

“You’re probably just feeling nervous in a strange house,” she says gently, an excuse she has used for one of her daughter's friends under similar conditions, albeit the child in question, that time, was only seven. Still - more or less the same. 

“Go and have a pee now, get all cleaned up and into dry pyjamas, and then you can have a bit more of a nap,” she adds. 

It’s not, admittedly, how she would talk to one of Roger’s friends in the daytime, ordinarily, but Freddie really does seem a lot younger than any of them ever has before - for years, really. Since they actually were children. 

She’ll keep an eye on him specially. Make sure he’s alright, that he isn’t getting too homesick or nervous, or anxious about something. That he isn’t worryingly fidgety. The last thing the poor boy needs is another accident when his confidence has already taken such a knock. 

She heads back to Roger’s room to examine the mattress - a good scrub with bicarb should help to get the smell out for now, and she can clean it thoroughly when the boys are back in London. 

Roger comes in for pyjamas to lend and she checks on his choice, verifying that they are warm, among the smallest pairs remaining in Cornwall, and not too difficult to undo at the waist - clearly a consideration given what’s just happened. It would be thoughtless to the point of unkind to increase Freddie's risk of another accident. 

In the bathroom, Freddie receives the pyjamas very shakily, then locks the door. He still can’t quite stop crying, and for some reason taking off his wet things makes it worse - as humiliating as they are, he feels even worse naked. Ugly and gawky and dark, with his legs and groin and bottom all slick and wet. 

Washing helps a bit, and when it’s done he sits miserably on the loo for another pee - there isn’t much but he does need to go a little bit, and he certainly isn’t going anywhere near borrowed pyjamas, or any sort of bed, without being as empty as possible. 

He’s so tired and so cried-out now that he can’t even bring himself to stand, though it’s girly to sit. 

Minutes later, he’s flushed and washed his hands, and he’s dressed in the borrowed pyjamas - green ones which are very warm, but certainly too big for him. He can’t possibly sleep with these on, just in case...Well, just in case. 

He has almost never - really, virtually not at all - had another accident later on in the night, after embarrassing himself once, but this isn’t the time to risk it.

He rinses the sink and wipes his face clean of tears for the sixth time, blowing his nose yet again and putting toilet paper in the pocket of the trousers in case the tears come back and get bad again. Stop crying. You have to stop crying.

By the time he’s out of the bathroom, he has found some uncertain self control. It’s far from perfect - but for now, it’s the best he can do. 

He takes a deep breath and gets ready to face Roger, sure that this, at last, is the thing that can’t ever be forgiven. 

The End.


End file.
